


the only one who would ever reach me

by carrionkid, psychedelia



Series: a friend of the devil is a friend of mine [2]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Cults, Earth-65, F/M, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-13 22:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19260850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrionkid/pseuds/carrionkid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychedelia/pseuds/psychedelia
Summary: the year is 1968, and matthew murdock is thoroughly enjoying the spark that elektra natchios provides, more than he probably should.





	1. matt

_**MARCH, 1968** _

He wouldn’t say it anywhere near Home, but the suits he’s given on these little outings are nowhere near as nice as the ones he used to be given, as a teenager, when the Hand required more camouflaged, more modern, missions. Crisp and ironed, sure, but not quite tailored for him perfectly. Really, who could blame Mr. Fisk? Matthew is tall and lean and angular and full of corded muscle all the same. Not exactly the wet dream of an expensive off-the-rack department store.

But it does the job. The shabbiness adds to the aesthetic. Trying to look nicer than he is, trying to appear _richer_ than he is; it’s good for college campuses. Gives him the crunchy vibe he’s going for, a well dressed Haight Ashbury Christian missionary expat who just wants _nothing more_ than to make sweet little friends with the college idiots clicking their heels down the campus sidewalks.

These missions he’s on are demeaning. He’s certain Mr. Fisk could send someone else to do this. The girls with the long straight hair or the boys with the curly overgrown locks that’ll make undergraduates think of the Beatles or Bob Dylan or someone. Not him. It all feels like a test.

Which is fine. Matthew is excellent at tests, and if Mr. Fisk wants him to bring in more people to the flock, he can do that. He can pretend to be something he isn’t and make people actually _like_ him, lie to people and give them promises of anything and everything under the sun and _wow, wouldn’t you know it, God’s grace is within us all if we just learn to love each other and get some peace on Earth?_

He’ll do better than any of the other Recruiters, this season. It means not coming home caked in blood and barely able to smell anything other than iron for weeks at a time until incense and bonfires dull his senses again and leave him numb.

The first recruit is no one special. A man of twenty two that Matthew knows either he or Bullseye will have to kill by the time winter comes. An idiot, a dullard, a boy with no sensibilities who lets Matthew’s words fill him up with glee and excitement and delusion and falls in love with the compound the second Matthew brings him Home, hickies pressed into his neck that make him blush and giggle when they’re in private and Matthew laughs with him breathlessly and the second the man won’t be leaving, he returns to his quarters and refuses to take company with him again. His own neck is dotted in love from the college-dropout, and it burns Matthew’s skin with a passion he’d rather never feel.

It’ll be fine; the recruit will find someone else and will get to have a story the entire time he’s here about how the Devil courted _him_ , Mr. Fisk’s own dark angel brought _him_ in. It’ll give him power, here, and Matthew will pretend he doesn’t exist. Might be fun for a week until Mr. Fisk sends him out to kill one of his adversaries on the streets again.

He wonders, sometimes, if anyone here realizes the kind of influence Mr. Fisk wields outside of this secret little pet project of his. Bullseye, certainly not. Wesley, probably. Everyone else? He doesn’t know. Maybe his next recruit will be high-profile enough to know what’s going on. That could be fun.

It’s the end of winter in ‘68 when his recruitment turns towards Elektra Natchios. April is around the corner and New York is still cold, because when isn’t it, but it’s sunny, and if you know where to sit when you’re scouting out the campus, it’s possible to hit a warmer spring draft.

She’s impulsive, and she’s dealing with a loss, and she is so incredibly unhappy, deep down. She’s perfect. She calls him Michael with her curt, deliberate way of speaking, and she wants, so clearly, the excuse to just fall apart and dive deep, deep into a dark bottomless hole.

Luckily, Mr. Fisk’s religious inclinations can accomplish that goal rather succinctly.

He stays chaste with her; the first few times, when she gets handsy, it’s clearly a test, and he pulls back away from her. Part of this game, this Performance, is to be the good, good religious boy who just wants to spread his gospel and not her legs.

So the most he does is kiss her hand, and hold her elbow when they walk, and guide their conversations slowly into the realm of the spiritual every chance he gets. ‘Michael’ plays a good preacher, persuasive and open to listening to critique and just so ‘deeply moved by the spiritual forces of this beautiful earth.’

It’s a load of shit. And Elektra knows it, but still, she plays along willingly.

By the second week he’s visiting her on campus, he doesn’t understand how a woman as smart as her so willingly listens to dogma she clearly sees right through.

It’s a Thursday, and so her final class for the day lets out at 2:50, and so he sits beneath a tree, an old bench that would be shaded if spring was struggling to arrive. She was impressed, he thinks, the first time he found her after class and waited patiently for her, just to have the chance to walk her down the quad. She likes the effort.

There’s a game to this; they both pretend to be certain people and test one another along the way. He has to admit, in his darkest, quietest moments, he truly does look forward to walking with her, even beyond the scope of the mission, of her Recruitment.

But he wouldn’t say it out loud to anyone, least of all her.

Elektra finds him quickly; He can tell by the way her heels stop for a moment, turning on a dime, but then she slows down and makes her way leisurely to him, trying to not care. She doesn’t know how well his hearing is, so he won’t call her out on it; it would be too much. There’s a fine line between the gentle pokes at their personas, and making it all so abundantly obvious how easily they see through one another.

Matthew wants her poking at this persona, not looking close enough to realize there’s more of them, that Michael is just a mirror suited to speak to her.

“Darling,” She says by way of greeting, sarcastic and cruel and _god_ Michael certainly likes her, and Matthew just might, too.

She calls him an Angel, and it always makes him smile, a wry twist of his lips that reads as flattered but is his own private little joke. She means it sarcastically, so ooey-gooey honeyed that it’s almost a caricature of middle class heterosexual America, but she doesn’t know the full story. Won’t, until she understands his purpose and realizes why the Devil like him is necessary in the function of the commune’s health.

All trees need pruning, and he functions like shears.

She invites him to a party.

A couple years ago and he would have declined. Too noisy, too risky, too overwhelming to keep a good lock and key on his target. Too many drugs that would make him look suspicious if he declined. But he has been retrained, recalibrated, and Michael enjoys parties.

"Hmm." He makes a real show of deciding, stroking his chin and everything. Knows she'll like that, this little game of tantalizing deliberateness.  But at the end of the day, the true name of the game is to buckle under each and every one of her whims, right up until she's guided to the right Path by Michael's soft hands.

She presses her thigh against him, and he imagines he's let this game go on long enough. “I suppose I could afford some down time. I’m not a kid, after all. I don’t have to sneak out after curfew to spend a night on the town with a lovely young woman like you.”

More than the other things he's had to be, he enjoys this version the most, perhaps. Less blood, less anger. In the deepest, quietest moments, when his paranoia isn't running high and he is certain Mr. Fisk can't hear his thoughts, he wonders if Michael is close to what he would have been, if he'd stayed in New York after the accident.

“Perfection! You do remember where my apartment is located, yes?” She's gleefully plum about the whole thing, and really, it just tickles him pink that she gets off to toying with boys like this.

“I think I can find my way. When should I pick you up?”

He doesn't tell her that he's researched her, done his homework, knows things about her that she'd never, ever willingly tell her. Of course he remembers where her apartment is.

A small press to her thigh, nothing obscene, just the ghosting of affection, is enough to get her to fidget. He imagines the curl of her smile growing at the display of arrogance. Oh, she'll get such a kick out of him pressing his fingers along her face, navigating through her facial expressions. Not until she's drunk, though. Such naked affection wouldn't work for a sober Elektra.

“Oh, after dinner at least. I do not imagine we will have much time for eating at this party.”

She's having such fun with him. He can almost feel the glee leaking off her as she toys with Michael, and Michael wants to shiver in electric mirth every time she opens her mouth and attempts to tear apart the little preacher's boy piece by piece.

“Am I allowed to ask why you think that?” Michael laughs, a clear thing with no bitterness and just the tiniest tinge of embarrassment, like he doesn't want to disappoint her.

Really, he doesn't. He almost feels bad that she'll get sucked in, easy as the rest, but that's Blasphemy and it sends a stab of pain down his head even thinking about it. Of course she'll get sucked in, because it's the best path of the heavenly Earth. She needs saving and, after all, he is her angel.

"Why, Michael, darling, are you telling me that you have never been to a college party?” She's mocking him, adds a little gasp to go with it, and Michael feels his lips curling up at the theatrically of it.

He just can't get performances like these back home, with the spiritually awakened pastoral cows.

“I can’t say I have been, Elektra; it’s not like preachers make Columbia money.”

She’s leaning closer to him, playing some tantalizing game that she knows he’ll eat up, and damn it, he admits he’s so lost in the folds of figuring out what she’s doing that he catches her in the middle of her next sentence, her voice rolling into what can only be described as a purr. “--find some enlightenment of your own, my love.”

And then she kisses him on the cheek, and he feels his skin blossoming in heat, his hand jerking to brush lightly against the back of her hand. Elektra doesn’t pull away, just presses herself closer, closer, until her forehead rests against his cheek and she can pull her hands around his shoulder, all but in his lap. He can smell her everything, the sweet, flowery perfume that she probably spent ages picking out, trying to figure out just what scent would complete whatever Look she’s going for this week, her long nails perfectly manicured and tickling at the back of his shoulders like little promises.

“I will be waiting for you, my angel,” she breathes, and he almost, almost shivers. Not just Michael. Matthew, too, and he doesn’t know what to do about that information, so he squares it away for later. Instead, he makes fine work of making it seem like he’s having the hardest time in the world not pulling her in close, his lips open just a little in a dazed smile. “Do wear something nice for me, darling.”

Ah. So she noticed the suit isn’t actually perfectly tailored. Of course she would; she pays attention to these things, and a curated and meticulous wardrobe is _important_ . And were his pockets deeper, he’d dress better for her, but then again, that’d be suspicious. He can’t look _too_ perfect, not even for her. It’d ruin the game, and Elektra needs _something_ about him to point to and mock.

“If you want me to dress up, dear,” Michael smiles, and he layers on the honey in every term of endearment so thick it almost sounds like a caricature, because it is, “Why don’t you buy me a suit?” Elektra doesn’t know who he truly is, but he knows her, and they’re both playing at sharks pretending to be people. Sharks don’t get _dears_ and _honeys_ and _sweethearts_ and each time they say it, it’s through a mouthful of sharp teeth.

Elektra likes to feel like a predator.

She purrs into his ear, “I only buy things for special boys, my love.”

His smile slips, just a smidge, something he covers up quickly. Most people wouldn’t notice it, but Elektra, he knows, is not most people. She pays attention to him in ways that, honestly, should make him drop her as a recruit, but it would be a shame. It would be such a shame.

Matthew will get Mr. Wesley to help him choose; the man might be an annoying prick, but his attire is meticulous.

“Well I’ll just have to work my way up to that, hm, darling?”

She starts to pull away, and Michael holds onto her wrists a moment, just a moment, a lingering touch that implies a promise of intimacy that he has stayed stubbornly pious about, until now.

Elektra leaves first, because she wouldn’t have it any other way. Michael listens to her walk away, can only envision the deep-seated smirk lining her features like a caricature of some femme fetale in a movie his father once showed him as a child.

He lingers on the bench for a moment, collecting himself, straightening his tie, letting it sink in where the Mission has taken him. Mr. Wesley will be none too happy to receive a call from him requesting money to get a nicer suit, but desperate measures must be made; if he doesn’t impress her tonight, she has made it all too clear that he will lose her, and Michael will have fallen infatuated for nothing.

That just won’t do.

 

* * *

 

The party is atrociously loud. Michael hears it two blocks before they reach the party, Elektra’s driving slightly erratic in her wobbly little Beetle Bug and her parking is sudden and jerky at the first available open spot. He’s noticed she doesn’t mind a walk, would prefer an easy accessible way to return or leave than the closest and most perfect spot possible.

 _My calves_ , she said once, when one of her tests included taking him along with her on errands, _will thank me for the longer walk_.

The boys on the lawn outside the party are a fine mix of boys living within fraternities who somehow still think they’re the downtrodden intellectuals of their time, and counter culture zealots who believe their taste in music will ever actually get them ahead in life.

Pathetic, and most of them wouldn’t even be worth the time of recruiting, because they would never be able to stick with one ideology and actually _believe_ it.

He would have pegged Elektra for the kind of beatnik parties down in Greenwich, but then again, all the counter culture in her is carefully manicured, carefully produced to create an image for her college peers. Going to a party where she’ll be _seen_ by her classmates must be required. He respects the lengths to which she goes.

Michael keeps a hand on her elbow as they walk inside, letting her guide him partially through the crowd. People move fluidly and heavily all at once, as though the earth is pressing down upon them, and he tries figure out just what it is the party’s been afflicted by. Acid, probably, and he can smell people smoking in the backyard, and there’s probably pills being passed around to make everyone feel all the more pleased with their decisions tonight.

It’s a big crowd, bigger than the parties at home, and younger, too.

“I never would’ve thought you’d be one to be fashionably late,” He laughs, his voice high over the sound of music and talking and dancing.

“My angel, I do most _everything_ fashionably.”

He laughs again, and lets himself be pulled by her, her grip strong and unyielding and once again he feels himself almost shivering under her touch. The kitchen is quieter, less suffocating, but his ears are full of blood and his mind is clouded with how close she is, drawing him in even closer and leading the way through a mockery of a dance.

“Surely you have allowed more than _just_ communion wine to pass those pretty little lips of yours.”

Maybe she doesn’t quite get what he’s playing at here. So he leans in closer, his words pressed delicately into her jaw, to try and remind her that he isn’t just a sweet little pastor’s boy. “I assure you, I’m no _angel_.”

Maybe it’s a little much; he’s not sure. But she all but dramatically gasps, and says, “Michael, dear, restrain yourself! After all, we have the entirety of the evening.” An admonishment and then more flirtations; he moves away from her, giving her some space.

Elektra pulls him to the drinks, and so begins the next part of her game. He has to drink, has to get inebriated, but he doesn’t want to get to the point that he slips up and Michael’s inherent hollowness shines through. So he tries to stay on her level, drinking with her and trying to figure out where her inebriation levels lie and where his do.

The drink makes them handsy, but he tries to meet her where she wants, kissing and touching, but letting her lead, not too passive as to do _nothing_ that surprises her, but nothing more than macking on one another, either. He’s good at this part, and it’s easier than usual; he actually likes Elektra, and he almost whines when she pulls away from him, his nose chasing the flesh of her neck where she grants him access to the hollow of her collarbone.

“Michael, darling, tell me, have you ever partaken in any hallucinogens?”

That, that makes him pause. Whatever joy he derives from her, however much he likes her and she likes him, this is one of those lines of thought that he can’t ignore. She’s falling right in line, and now’s the time to dig in deep, get her to start thinking about true Salvation.

Can’t sound too eager, so he huffs against her, his teeth almost sharp against where her collarbone juts out, and says, “If I didn’t know you, I’d say you were a cop.” _Matthew_ isn’t the biggest fan of the drugs she’s wanting; Michael knows all about these things and relishes in this new test.

“I believe someone here has, hmm, I believe as this group refers to it, ‘acid’?”

Maybe he’s a little drunk. Or maybe she just really makes him laugh, past her tests, past these games, past these theatricalities, she’s funny in a way that’s pointed, clever and whip-smart, and it makes him laugh, pulling himself from his neck to let his head fall back against the back of the ratty communal couch they’re splayed over.

He lifts his face back up and gets really close, his nose almost touching hers. “I can do you something better than that back home.”

Acid. It was good if you wanted to burn a few brain cells and find an artificial high, but it wasn’t the path to Righteousness and Salvation. Not under the eyes of Mr. Fisk.

“You could?”

Matt starts moving back into her neck again. He likes the way she smells, likes coming home smelling like her perfumes and having the lingering scent of her shampoo in his nostrils. He’d made Bullseye sleep by himself after one of their… outings… because he’d wanted to be reminded of her, even when he woke up. “Oh, yes. Only for special occasions, but we _do_ know how to have fun.”

Elektra pulls him back, leans his head up against the back of the couch so she can press her fingers to his face, trailing them down his cheeks and to his lips, lining them like her fingers were lipstick. “Perhaps you could show me, one day.”

Michael opens his lips for her; he can be hers, if it means she’ll come Home with him eventually. His glasses are pushed up to his hairline so she could explore his face more, and when she sticks her fingers into his mouth, he lets his eyes close and he leans in closer.

He smiles, something that curls upwards in mischievous glee, something he hopes she appreciates. A devoted, self-aware little thing punctuate by a breathless and muffled, “Yeah, maybe one day.”

She starts to pull his fingers from his mouth and Michael’s hand shoots up to stop her for a moment, letting his eyes open again, facing up at her and giving her an earnest, unapologetic look of _hope_ , something he sincerely hopes himself looks like devotion, rather than pitiful clinginess. He lets go and she replaces her fingers with a solid hand wrapped around his jaw, returning to the kissing as though that answers that.


	2. elektra

_**MARCH, 1968** _

 

Elektra really has no big picture plans for the latest boy caught in her web. She rarely does, now that she is in school. Every man wants to be a savior of sorts, but she no longer requires a knight in shining armor to take her from her father’s castle.

University was an unexpected turn of events, though she supposes she must be intended to follow in her father’s footsteps. It has, however, made it such that most boys are nothing better than an early evening workout. She no longer needs respite from her father’s household and she no longer needs a tour guide to spend the night with the common people.

Of course, not everyone is as receptive to her lifestyle as would be ideal. Before returning for the present semester, there had been one significant fight and while her father is usually kind and stern, he is also far too set in his ways. He had accused her, entirely baseless, of endeavoring to tarnish his reputation by, and she quotes, “crawling into any bed occupied by a brainless limp-dicked American boy.”

That is assuredly an objective falsehood. She has not _crawled_ into a single bed, the limp-dicked American boys she spends her time with have _always_ been the ones to beg for a minute of her time. She does not take them home because she could not bear the stink of them in her sheets.

But it is better than the alternative, that is to say, her father finding out that she splits her time equally between American boys and American girls. The girls are far more of a challenge, but are much more satisfying when she’s managed to catch them. Boys come easily to her side, plentiful and pointless.

This current boy has the potential to be enjoyable. He is tall and lithe, like a dancer, and while he is the child of some nameless military recruit, she can appreciate anyone with the capability to speak more than one language. That was a trait she had taken for granted before coming to such an unrefined country.

His name is Michael, or maybe Matthew, or perhaps some other divine figure. He fancies himself an Archangel. At the end of the day, it does not actually matter.

Most importantly, he is attractive and moves with a certain air of arrogance that she would love to fuck out of him.

She often comes across him on campus, though she does not actually believe he attends. He plays the part quite marvelously, but his suit is out of season and obviously mended and she has been acquainted with the majority of scholarship students.

He wants her, she knows this, because they all do.

In anyone else, it would belie a certain pretension, but this is not a matter of pride, nor a matter of vanity. And she is not some bacchanalian whore, she is simply making a pre-emptive strike.

Her darling Archangel waits for her whenever he is present on campus. She likes to see exactly how long he will wait for her, an amount of time to which she has not yet found a limit. And when they are reunited, he places a hand on her arm and they stroll the grounds and talk of all manner of things.

She does not care for trivial details, but she collects them in case they may become useful.

His father is dead, killed in some manner which civilized people do not speak of. He lives now with a pastor, presumably of blood relation. He seems to be ensnared by counter culture and those boys often let her take advantage of their stores of hallucinogens and soporifics.

It is a simple trade off. She fucks him and he gives her the world.

Or it would be, were he not so chaste and pious.

He talks with her of finding paths and enlightenment and how his current guardian seeks to change the world and maddeningly enough, he does not endeavor to go any further than a fireless hand resting against her waist.

* * *

He waits for her now, sitting on one of the benches beneath one of the older trees on campus grounds. Her Archangel is as beautiful as he is lonely, the only species of boy worth pursuing. There are interactions to suggest that she is making progress with him. Yes, perhaps even winning him over.

He is not incorruptible or untouched; his lifestyle alone is enough to suggest as much. While he may be intent on moving slowly like a proper young man courting a proper young woman, he is beyond hope if he assumes it is a _wanted_ chain of events.

She decides on the spot that she will test him. She will see how loyal he is, if he will follow her to the ends of the earth.

“Darling,” Elektra croons, standing before him with her hands folded behind her back, “ _Angel_ , would you be interested in accompanying me to a party?”

It is the way of men to command; all she must do is _ask_ and there is not a soul in the world that would refuse her.

“Hmm,” Michael strokes his chin between his thumb and pointer finger, as if he really _must_ consider the answer.

She takes a seat next to him and crosses her legs, doing so in a way which allows for her to nudge his calf with the toe of her shoe while also pressing one thigh flush to his. It is with careful precision that she decided this move. He is weak, as most people are; his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose are rapidly nearing the same approximate shade of red as his hair.

He smiles, it would be intolerable if it were sheepish, but instead it is something more along the lines of self-assured, “I suppose I could afford some down time. I’m not a kid, after all. I don’t have to sneak out after curfew to spend a night on the town with a lovely young woman like you.”

“Perfection! You do remember where my apartment is located, yes?”

He had walked her home one evening, not long after they had become acquainted. A knight in shining armor, to escort her home through the wicked forest of New York after dark. If she is being honest, which she rarely is, she has fantasized about those cursèd streets and the wickedness of strangers and how delightful it would be to see blood spilled upon sidewalks.

Her father had gifted her a blade before going abroad. A gift accompanied with stories to fill her foolish head of the dangers of the world and how she must protect herself lest they try to rend her flesh from bone. He loves her, but he loves her as though she is a porcelain doll, best loved from behind a glass pane.

It sits in her bedroom, untouched and blood-lust unsated.

She is not cruel, no, not in that way.

“I think I can find my way,” Michael has not yet mastered the art of stifling arrogance, “When should I pick you up?”

“Oh, after dinner at least. I do not imagine we will have much time for eating at this party.”

“Am I _allowed_ to ask why you think that?” He laughs, an almost heavenly sound; she will not grow fond of him, no matter how intriguing she finds him.

He is nothing more than recreation tied up in a compelling little puzzle. A sensible young man who is beautiful and speaks with the refined tone best associated with boarding school, who passes his time by preaching the end of the world on university campuses.

And he is a handsome preacher boy, at that.

“Why, Michael, darling, are you telling me that you have never been to a college party?” She feigns a gasp; perhaps she should have been an actress, at least then she would be _well paid_ for performances like these.

“I can’t say I have been, Elektra, it’s not like preachers make Columbia money.”

“Well, you simply _must_ come with me! Perhaps you will find some _enlightenment_ of your own, my love.”

She kisses her Archangel on the cheek. If he were less pious, she would make her way down to his neck. She would like to reach a point at which she would be able to get away with _marking_ him. The American girls refer to them as love bites, which is laughable. As if she would ever love one of her boys.

Following the kiss, she rests her forehead against his cheek and drapes her arms over him. From a distance, perhaps they even look like one of the campus couples. Those ones are always disgustingly clingy, as if they may never see one another again.

“I will be waiting for you, my _angel_ ,” she speaks breathily, in the style that seems to drive boys mad with excitement, “Do wear something nice for me, darling.”

And she smiles, the devilish smile of one who has not been caught misbehaving. Of course, the implication is that his present attire is not nice enough for her. It will be interesting to see if he modifies himself for her.

“If you want me to dress up, dear,” Michael quirks his lip up into a smirk, showcasing wonderfully straight, white teeth, “Why don’t you buy me a suit?”

“I only buy things for _special_ boys, my love.”

Michael’s face falls at that. It is an action that would be imperceptible to most, as he counters it quite quickly and with practiced ease. He has never failed her thus far, he is always entertaining enough to make her hunt worthwhile.

“Well,” Michael drops his voice to a mere whisper, one that is airy and light and says that his statement is more a threat than a promise, “I’ll just have to work my way up to that, hm, darling?”

Elektra pulls away slowly, enough that if he were so inclined, he could prevent her from doing as such. She would not continue to toy with him if he were to do so; the assertive boys are often more trouble than they are worth. Instead, he passes the test. He allows his hands to rest on her wrist, a quite achingly _wanting_ action. It is enough to satisfy her, for now.

He thinks that he is the one allowing her to extricate herself from the embrace, but he is wrong. Still, the touch of his lithe fingers against the soft, inner side of her wrist is enough to set her veins alight and once again, she wishes that he was not so chaste. However, she has a great deal of time to rectify that.

Once her back is turned to her Archangel, she allows herself to smile. It is not as if he would be capable of knowing that she is smiling, but she is, perhaps, a creature of habit and everything seems to be going perfectly according to plan. She keeps her strides long and imagines dear Michael relishing in the sound of her heels against the sidewalk.

This is another test. Many of the self-proclaimed ‘nice’ boys like Michael end up repulsed by her after she admits to her vices, but the ones that pass this test are always the sweetest to bed. She likes them when they are more relaxed, perhaps even more genuine. It is almost worth all the trouble leading up to the kill when she can languish in it and this allows for the feeling of skin against skin to achieve a sensation almost electrifying.

She will make herself irresistible to him. It is an easy process, one which she has mastered after far too many years of having it scored into her by every movement, by every interaction, every single touch, all combining as a cumulative strike against her. It is… easier this way.

* * *

Elektra drives back to her apartment. She does not often lower herself to the point of taking the trains and she does not care for walks without a purpose. Her vehicle is a perfect extension of her constructed self: a yellow Volkswagen Beetle, paid for in its entirety with a check as soon as she settled on a cohesive look for herself.

She has carved out a niche for herself within the Mod subculture, and she is as vapid as the other non-believers. Whatever meaning was once tied to it, has now been lost to the mass-media hysteria surrounding it. It suits her needs reasonably well; she maintains an aesthetic that allows her to stand out without costing her an air of refinement.

After closing the door and locking it behind her, she sheds herself of her clothing, and with it, the darling Ambassador’s daughter smile. She moves with as much confidence undressed as she does while fully clothed and as she makes her way striding throughout the apartment, she pulls the deliberate array of bobby pins from her hair.

By the time she is standing on the tile floor of her bathroom, her hair is entirely loose. It reaches past her waist and she has always been commended for it. Currently, it covers her almost completely, though modesty is not a luxury she has been able to afford since she came of age, perhaps even before then.

Like this, she looks far meaner. There is no need for her lips to be perpetually contorted into a smile, and she often finds herself precariously close to snarling, allowing a hint of her teeth to shine through between parted and perfectly red lips. There is a stern look in her eyes, the kind her father has while debating, but there is something otherworldly and wild about the look in conjunction to her hair being loose and the snarl spread across her face.

She wonders if her Archangel could love her in this nearly biblical state.

It is a pointless little fantasy, one which she quells before she allows it to settle in the pit of her stomach.

Instead, she thinks of how she will win him as she scours the makeup from her face. She is meant to be perfect. The porcelain doll behind a pane of glass, never a hair out of place.

Once her skin is suitably clean, she moves out into her bedroom. She is living in a part of town civilized enough to allow her the common decency of a walk-in closet and she looks through each of her dresses. She needs something alluring yet casual enough that she will not stand out amongst the other party-goers.

Most everything she lays her hands upon gives a sense of unappealing distaste. She experiences this apathy often, as though there is nothing worthwhile in the entire world. It leaches into far more facets than just her wardrobe, and she stifles it by acting on any urge she manages to encounter.

She settles on a red dress, perhaps a year out of season, but the hem barely reaches the midsection of her thigh, it clings to her quite nicely, and if everything proceeds according to plan, she will be out of it before the night is through.

The dress seems satisfactory enough after she slips it on and straightens out her hair. She does not bother with undergarments, nor with stockings, and she imagines that she will savor the look on her Archangel’s face when he realizes that she is not as holy as he.

The majority of the rest of her time spent waiting for him is devoted to repinning her hair and making herself presentable, so to speak. It is with great effort that she has honed the skills required to make it resemble the popular styles of the season. While she has always been told of how beautiful her hair is, she feels very plain with it merely resting against her.

Now, it is in an updo of sorts, still a deep, endless black with curls untouched. The final step is to re-apply her makeup, an act which she must only hope she has enough time for. It will be simpler, this time, as the point of the night is to become loose and unrestrained. She lines her eyes and applies lipstick, the brand of which she knows always leaves marks.

She is tucking the tube of lipstick into her pocketbook when Michael knocks on her door. When she opens it, she finds him in a slightly nicer suit than before. It looks as if it fits him better, but he is so lean and lithe and sharp that perhaps nothing shall ever fit him without the divine intervention of a good tailor.

“Well, darling, let us be off, then,” she speaks before he even has time to open his mouth.

Elektra has always had a certain fondness for boys who cannot keep up with her. He nods silently and does not object when she takes him by the arm and leads him down to the lobby.

* * *

Her Archangel is a good one, perhaps one of the best she has chosen, as he does not object when she drives them to the party, either. Most boys are wont to find it humiliating that she pays for dates and drives them to any locale required of her.

The party is on the outskirts of the university campus, in one of the houses ideologically adjacent to a fraternity house. She finds these men to be more tolerable than those who cling to the illusion of camaraderie. They are candidly honest about embracing more carnal desires and while they fancy themselves the type that will change the world, they have _delightful_ celebrations for the simplest of reasons.

There is music already playing and the lights are low, casting grave shadows upon the faces of their fellow partygoers. There is a certain quality to the light; it makes it flicker as though the room was lit by candles rather than electricity. Most everyone here is already too far gone to even spare a thought to the pair of them, standing on the very threshold of the house.

“I never would’ve thought you’d be one to be fashionably late,” Michael laughs.

“My angel, I do most _everything_ fashionably.”

She draws him in, fingers lingering over the pulse point on his wrist and he is almost delightfully pliable. She does not lose him, even while dragging him through the frenetic crowd of bodies. At the eye of the storm is the kitchen and by extension, the dining room and it is at this point that she finally allows Michael some reprieve.

Elektra draws him in close, play-acting at slow dancing, and whispers in his ear, “Surely you have allowed more than _just_ communion wine to pass those pretty little lips of yours.”

“I assure you, I’m no _angel,_ ” Michael punctuates the sentiment by mouthing at the curve of her jaw, a delightfully salacious act for a preacher boy, especially when he barely grazes his teeth over her skin.

“Michael, dear, restrain yourself! After all, we have the entirety of the evening.”

He moves away from her quickly, as if he is capable of being embarrassed. He does not go so far as to act apologetic, though, which gives her hope that he may yet prove to be enjoyable.

“Come, darling, enjoy yourself.”

With that, she makes her way over to the drinks. The way she moves is a clear indication that she does not require Michael to follow on her heels, but he seems inclined to do as such anyways. Usually, she would make quick work of the contents of cups as small as these, but this is a test, after all.

Which leads her to the present situation. She is pacing herself and watching every movement Michael makes. So far, she is _only_ drunk, and barely so at that. Michael has been drinking as well, though he seems to be apprehensive and pointedly restrained even if he can handle his alcohol.

This is not doing enough for her, though. They are sequestered away in a corner of a nondescript common area, as packed with warm-blooded bodies as any other room in the house. Michael has a knee pressed between her thighs as he kisses her and were he not so soft and receptive, she would be enraged by the fact that he is undoing all of her hard work with regards to her hair.

He makes wonderfully delicious little moans when she runs a hand over the small of his back and licks into his mouth. But the sensation is not enough to sate her, so she breaks off the kiss and allows him to continue working his way down to the hollow of her neck.

“Michael, darling, tell me, have you ever partaken in any hallucinogens?”

“If I didn’t know you,” he sounds breathless, wanting almost, and it is electrifying, “I’d say you were a cop.”

“I believe someone here has, hmm, I believe as this group refers to it, ‘acid’?” She knows the colloquialisms, but she finds people love the novelty of her accent and a feigned inability to integrate with American culture.

Michael throws his head back with raucous laughter and it is a sensation she can feel within her ribcage. He still has his hands tangled within her hair and she realizes, for once, that perhaps he is more inebriated than previously thought.

“I can do you something better than that back home.”

She raises an eyebrow at that statement, “You could?”

“Oh, yes,” he speaks more softly now, as if it is a secret, in between nuzzling his nose against her neck, “Only for special occasions, but we _do_ know how to have fun.”

“Perhaps you could show me, one day,” she smiles, tracing her pointer and middle finger over his lips.

He parts his perfect Cupid’s bow for her, almost dutifully, and lets her slip her fingers inside. He is quite the entertaining boy indeed, and an intriguing one, at that.

His eyes flutter shut and he is both very beautiful and very willing to do whatever she wants him to. Perhaps she will tell him how pretty he is when he is beholden to her every whim. However, it would be a shame to endeavor to put it into words. There is not a suitable way to entirely capture the way his hair falls across his forehead and how his eyelashes brush against his cheeks and how this is, by some chance of fate, the only time he has not flushed like a schoolboy.

“Yeah,” he even manages to speak around her fingers, “Maybe one day.”


End file.
